The Passionate Lover.  
To the Tune of I Loved thee once I'll love no more.  

 

AS I sat in a pleasant shade,  
under the arch of a thick Grove,  
Where Nature had an Arbour made,  
I did begin to think of Love;  
Me thought it was a peevish toy,  
Because Love's God was but a Boy,  
and deeply vowed that in my breast  
such brainless frenzies should not rest.   

As I thus thought, there passed by  
one seemed a Goddess, yet a Creature,  
Who did transpire me with her eye,  
and wound me with her heavenly feature:  
Why heart she did so deeply wound,  
That I fell senseless to the ground,  
and was of senses quite bereaved,  
till with her hand I up was heaved.   

But her soft hand, diviner touch  
was cause of greater misery,  
The virtue of her hand was such,  
that it pierced deeper than her eye,  
Her fingers are those vevomd darts  
By which she pierceth tender hearts:  
her eyes be shafts, and if she aim  
she doth the mark or kill, or maim.   

I gazed so long upon her eyes,  
that I was taken in a snare,  
And made her captive, and her prize,  
bound in the tresses of her hair:  
As I upon her beauty gaze,  
My erring thoughts are in a maze,  
whereas they wander round about,  
〈…〉 can●●t find a passage out.   

I thought she was the sovereign cure  
to salve this heart sick malady,  
Because she did the wound procure,  
I thought she would be remedy:  
But she unkind denied relief,  
Like a bad Surgeon launched my grief,  
and left it not as 'twas before,  
but cared less, and wounded more,   

The more I looked, the worse my heart.  
the more I grieve, the less she cares,  
The more she smiles, the worse my smart,  
and she doth laugh when I shed tears:  
This is not Balsam for my sore,  
It helps it less, and pains it more,  
and she may know if she be wise  
I can't be cured by contraries.   

Beauty is like a blazing light,  
that simple fools do flock unto,  
Like silly Flies to that by night.  
till they themselves do quite undo,  
For while they dally with the Torch,  
They presently themselves do scorch,  
than soon they fall, as soon they die,  
oh that I were not such a Fly.   

I thought in Love were only joy,  
continual truce, and never war,  
But now I see nought but annoy,  
fears and despairs the ofspringer:  
Sow Men perchance do Honey find,  
If that they meet with one that's kind,  
but I have found that in this Been  
there is no sweet, but sting for me.    

The Second Part.  
To the same Tune.  
 
 

SHe was the white at which I shot.  
but aiming wide I could not hit her  
Scorns and disdains was all I got,  
she was to coy, I could not get her:  
But as for her, she shot so right  
That none her arrows hinder might,  
She is so skilful and so quick.  
That if she shoots she hits the prick,   

Unhappy I that face to view  
whose every look shoots death at me,  
Whose every glance doth grieve renew,  
and add degrees to misery:  
Then let those eyes in darkness languish,  
that were my Conduits to this anguish,  
And let the Curtains of sad night,  
Debar them of the joy of light.   

O thrice unhappy I to go,  
unto the grove where she was seen,  
It was the cause of all my woe:  
I wish that there I bade not been,  
Then let my legs wax dry & whither,  
that were my porters brought me hither  
And let them fall and broken lie,  
like pillars by times injury   

When that I heard the fatal voice,  
that she pronounced against my bliss:  
My heart for very anguish stirred,  
and ready was pale death to kiss,  
If her least word can do such wrong:  
why was she borne with such a tongue,  
And I▪ to heavens will put this suit,  
that I were deaf or she were mute,   

Why should dame nature make such faces,  
and so adorn these heavenly creatures:  
When they do want those milder graces,  
That do add grace unto their features  
Like to the Sirens they allure:  
that no man can their Charms endure,  
And in the looks where grace should lie:  
sharp frowns sits in and puts grace by   

I thought in that soft Satin skin,  
which being touched doth seem to melt,  
And in that breast which tempts to linne:  
and ravish men when it is felt,  
There had not been so hard a hart;  
since softness was in every part,  
Oh why should Nature make a jewel,  
to be so Lovely and so Cruel:   

The burning fever of fond love,  
hath now corrupted every part:  
My legs too weak can hardly move;  
and love hath festered to my heart,  
My sinews shrirke my heartstrings ache,  
My pulses leap my joints do shake:  
And every limb and every sense,  
is plagued for my eyes offence.   

Then let my soul post hence away,  
And with swift flight from me be gone,  
Why should it with me longer stay:  
in such a rotten mansion;  
O Let it take the last farewell,  
in such a house no longer dwell,  
While I for grief would farther speak,  
my soul flies out my heartstrings break     

〈…〉